


Rewind, Rewind

by staringatstars



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hamilton References, Hanzo is terrible at similes, M/M, McGenji - Freeform, Shimada Brothers, Shimada Clan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:28:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: It's the annual Shimada banquet and, regardless of expectations, Hanzo couldn't be less eager to find himself a wife among the dozens of young women vying for his hand.Then he meets Joel Morricone.





	Rewind, Rewind

The three of them, Sojiro Shimada and his sons, were in the dressing room, changing into their formal wear complete with pin-striped hakama and midnight black haoris emblazoned with the Shimada-gumi crests on their backs, when Genji, swaying appraisingly in front of the full length mirror, glanced cheekily over at their father to say, “Oh, by the way, _otou-san_ , the dinosaurs called.” With his dominant hand still clutching the phone he’d used to alert the banquet that he and his family were running a little behind schedule, Sojiro forwent pinching the bridge of his nose, substituting it instead with arcing an exasperated brow at his youngest, while Hanzo remained impassive, unwilling to give Genji’s antics even that much acknowledgement. This did nothing to discourage him. Tilting his head back almost leeringly, Genji finished, “They said we’re outdated.”

And despite his previous resolve, Hanzo snorted a laugh. He’d always had a weakness to bad puns, one which his younger brother was only too willing to take advantage of. Though he hurriedly attempted to muffle himself, it was impossible to miss the genuine grin which briefly brightened Genji’s features, the spark of triumph. 

Sojiro, however, was not so easily amused. After settling the phone back into its cradle, he fixed the pair of them with a silently disapproving stare, the kind that had the power to shrink even the most power men in Japan, and they instinctively bowed their heads, successfully chastened. “Come,” looking like nothing less than a king in his traditional robes, he commanded, “we must leave at once. To be late to a banquet of our hosting would be a sign of the highest disrespect to the other clan leaders.” And with that, he swept out into the hall, moving briskly towards the limo awaiting them outside. 

“And their daughters,” Genji whispered slyly from the side of his mouth as they hastily moved to follow, causing Hanzo to nearly stumble on the threshold when his attention abruptly shifted. He’d known, of course, that both the elders and their father maintained a hope that he would find a wife among the girls, thereby allowing the Shimada-gumi to solidify their alliances, strengthen their bonds and increase their influence, but it had always seemed like such a distant concern. After all, he was still rather young, and father was healthy and secure in his reign.

As they piled into the pale leather backseats of the limo, as Genji adopted and perfected his mask of nonchalance and boredom, Hanzo struggled to recall the terrible crime he must have committed to find himself made the living punchline of the universe’s worst joke. 

 

“Floral. Floral. Geometric.” Curious as to what his little brother was up to, Hanzo deftly navigated his way through the crowd of yakuza to join him in the back. He was leaning against the earth-colored wallpaper, watching the young ladies from other clans as they entered with shy smiles and the occasional flourish. The latest was from the Omoto branch, led by _kumicho_ Takahashi, who came accompanied by his wife and eldest daughter. While Kumi Omoto wore a bold yet tasteful dress of black and crimson with golden flower petal accents, her daughter had arrived covered in a kaleidoscope collection of garish pink cherry blossoms. The brothers cringed. “Definitely floral.” Turning to his brother with a grimace that spoke of strain, Genji asked, “Have I ever told you how much I love floral and geometric patterns, _anija_?”

For his part, Hanzo cupped a palm over his mouth to conceal a smile. “You must have failed to mention it.”

When the next announced clan head arrived, Genji perked up. Digging out a note for five-hundred yen out of his pocket, Genji murmured conspiratorially, his eyes glued to the entrance, “Place your bets, Hanzo. Akihito-san is wearing the same tacky tie again. Calling it now.”

Though he made certain to put on a show of sighing exasperatedly, Hanzo reached into his hakama to retrieve his own note, saying simply, “He would not dare wear the same tie three years in a row.”

Soon after, the man in question arrived, wearing an expensive Armani suit that appeared to be in the process of being consumed by the horrifying koi fish swimming on his chest. Wordlessly, Hanzo passed over the money while Genji cackled. 

After a while, Genji departed to make conversation with their guests, as was his specialty, though not before impressing upon him to do the same. It was unseemly for the future _oyabun_ of the Shimada-gumi to be seen as a vine growing on the wall, and while those were not the words Genji had uttered, it was what Hanzo heard, and so he flitted from cluster to cluster, introducing himself, making polite conversation. He knew he had a tendency to come across as sullen and standoffish, especially when he was uncomfortable, but if he kept the conversations brief and superficial, he was certain that he could make it through the evening. 

As for the women… every now and then he would glance over at their faces to see a familiar mixture of frustration and disappointment as he repeatedly paid their relatives more attention. To the best of his ability, he tried to keep his attentions amiable without seeming overly invested, to distribute himself evenly, bestowing favor to none so that none could get their hopes up. An eagerness to please their families and the temptation of a husband in such a position of power motivated them to all but throw themselves at his feet, yet not even the knowledge that they would enter such a political arrangement fully aware of its risks could convince Hanzo that it was fitting to condemn them to a loveless marriage. Though he doubted he could prevent the inevitable, it was certainly in his power to delay it. 

Once he’d done enough to make his presence known, he felt himself begin to drift from the festivities. Idly, he noted that Genji was dancing with Omoto-san’s daughter. There was a glass of wine in his hand, and his movements, Hanzo observed with a wry smirk, were completely at odds with the strumming of the shamisen filtering out of the speakers. Still, the girl was doing her best to keep up by emulating his movements with a look of delighted concentration. Leave it to his little brother to drag his dance partner along on a beat only he could hear.

Shaking his head, Hanzo waved his hand airily as he departed to the balcony for some fresh air. The night sky stretched wide and expansive over his head, a blanket wrapped around the earth with stars embedded in its fabric. As he leaned against the stone railing with a shallow cup of plum wine and a _tokkuri_ he’d snagged from the catering table, he began to feel oddly light, as though he could tip off the balcony at any moment and tumble into the stars. With a scoff, he yanked his head out of the clouds. 

Such flights of fancy were unworthy of him, after all.

A low whistle startled him out of his thoughts. “Watching you has been a journey.” He spun on the intruder, a snarl on his lips, until the man’s identity became clear and confusion took precedence. It was not every day that the heir to a Japanese criminal organization came face-to-face with a man from the States. Though he couldn’t have been past his twenties, the side-burned American with the wide-brimmed hat resting against the back of his suit had ostensibly attained an invitation to the banquet due to rumors of a rash of arms deals successfully mediated with his guidance. It was said that he was dangerously charismatic and deadly with a six-shooter. 

His name was… Joel Morricone, if Hanzo recalled correctly. 

A youth with no past, sudden success, and an inexplicable ability to ingratiate himself with people of influence. It reeked of espionage. 

For a moment, Hanzo pitied the man. He’d probably believed himself lucky to receive an invitation from his father, when in truth it was quite the opposite. Hanzo could only hope that when the time came to pass judgment, it would not be left to him to carry out the task. 

Shifting modes to address the man in English, Hanzo inquired with the barest trace of civility, “What are you doing out here, Mr. Morricone?”

The man wrinkled his nose at the address. “Now, ya don’t have ta be so formal, Shimada-san. Joel will do just fine.” Running his fingers through his hair, he said, “It was getting a little stuffy in there for my tastes.” Then with an earnest grin, he quickly added, “The food was great, though. Best tempura I’ve ever had in my life.” 

He ambled up next to him, assuming a relaxed posture as he joined him against the railing. Then he stretched, curving his back over the top until it cracked with an audible pop. Hanzo winced, his expression a portrait of perturbation and displeasure. 

Joel cocked a brow at him. “What?” Rather than acknowledge the question, Hanzo visibly resigned himself to his presence as he fixed his gaze on the banquet, where more dancers had taken to the floor, each of them swaying in time to the rhythm of the drums and the undulations of the vocals. Above their heads, _furin_ wafted in the summer breeze, the glass wind chimes occasionally cutting the night with their clear, bell-like peals. Softly, almost to himself, Hanzo muttered, “The dancers… They dance like… wind chimes.” 

Beside him, Joel’s eyes widened to a concerning degree, immediately setting Hanzo on edge, who regretted ever opening his mouth. The indignity was only heightened when the man bent forward, sounding as though he were choking on the laughter bursting from within his chest. 

Once he got the giggles under control, Joel wiped the corners of his eyes with a sigh, a slight flush in his cheeks, “Ya look all smooth and suave and then you come out with that? You tryin’ to kill a man?” 

“That remains to be seen,” came the tightly restrained response. Joel looked up to see his companion looming over him like a thunderstorm.

“Aw, now look, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that it takes more to make a good simile than comparing two things in your line of sight.” To his surprise, Hanzo’s scowl began to soften into something more thoughtful. 

“Perhaps you could do better, then?”

The American agreed instantly. “Sure, I’ll give it a go.” He cast his gaze around the banquet hall, searching for something to wax poetic on. “Oh, but let’s throw out fire and ice. The elements are great and all, but honestly they’ve been done to dirt and back again.” Eventually, he settled on a young women watching the dancers from the corner. She didn’t seem envious of the others, but rather content, as her eyes remained closed, her brow relaxed, as she swayed along to the beat, a subtle smile curving her lips. “Her form, thin and reedy, bent and curved to the music’s gentle pulse like a river’s cattail.” Morricone hummed as he thought it over, before apparently deciding it was passable, and he glanced to gauge Hanzo’s reaction. 

And while he hadn’t exactly been expecting applause, the impressed incomprehension was a bit of a shock. “It sounded very good,” Hanzo admitted reluctantly. “It is just… why does the river have a cat tail? I do not think…” He trailed off with a scowl as Joel started to chuckle warmly. 

“Sorry, friend, it’s actually the name of a pretty common plant that likes to grow in wet environments. Rule #1 of being a writer is know your audience, but it looks like I still have a lot to learn.”

“A writer?” A predatory smile crept over Hanzo’s features. “And what about being a weapons dealer, Mr. Morricone?” – “I told you already, it’s Joel.” – “I imagine it would be difficult to balance the lifestyles.” Now, was it his imagination or was the alleged arms dealer’s bronze coloring a shade lighter. Did he suspect that he knew the truth? And was Morricone aware that if Hanzo knew of his genuine allegiances, then surely his father did, too? “Or did you not consider that?”

But Joel was no prey. “Oh?” He met Hanzo’s narrowed gaze without wavering, sporting a blatant grin of challenge from where he slouched. “Now that’s the face of a man who’s got something he wants to say.” Taken aback, Hanzo straightened and stood, uncertain if the American should be commended for his bravery or condemned for his foolishness. Joel followed suit. “You always this friendly with strangers, Shimada?”

And unexpectedly, Hanzo laughed, startling them both. He could feel warmth in his cheeks, and knew it to be from more than just the alcohol. This conversation was the most fun he’d had in a very long time. “I have never been accused of being friendly before.”

For a moment, Joel appeared simply too stunned to speak. He soon rallied himself with a shake, but before he could get a word out, a green blur burst onto the balcony, throwing itself sloppily over Hanzo’s shoulders. “Hanzo, man, I’ve been looking for you. Where’d you go?” 

Joel’s jaw dropped, “You’re the younger brother, right? Genji Shimada.” 

Genji squinted at him, apparently deciding which of the doubles he wanted to talk to. “You know me? Cool.” Whispering very loudly into Hanzo’s ear, Genji slurred, “Brother, listen... I’m famous.”

 _No, you’re a nuisance_ , Hanzo wanted to say. _This man has researched us, he’s been sent to infiltrate us, and if something does not change, he will not last the night._

He grabbed ahold of his brother’s arms to keep him from slipping off his back when Genji’s knees suddenly wobbled. Joel rushed over to help, allowing Genji to slip over to him like an overly affectionate koala. He looked so utterly bewildered at the predicament he’d found himself in that Hanzo’s rapidly plummeting mood nearly halted its descent, except seeing Genji wrap himself around the man like he was laying claim was enough to kill any temptation for levity. As much as he loved his brother, there were times when Hanzo couldn’t help but feel as though everything in the world belonged to him.

Still, while it was vital to the clan that Hanzo leave himself open to the possibility of an arranged marriage, Genji was given far more leeway, in both his love life and his array of suitors. He also knew that Joel would want to work his way into the Shimada-gumi for its information, and the rising heir would be too close to clandestine dealings to associate with a spy, but Genji never attended meetings nor held any interest in the clan’s dealings, anyway. There would be little the man could glean from him, and perhaps seeing his youngest take an interest in the American would give their father cause to spare his life. 

Presently, Genji was looking at him as though he were a future conquest, but Morricone had already proved himself a worthy opponent. He would not bend to Genji’s whims as others had. Hanzo lingered for a time, his knuckles standing out a stark white against the railing as he watched the pair trade casual banter. It seemed the balcony just wasn’t large enough for three people. 

He moved to rejoin the party, knowing that his absence would have surely been missed by now, only to hesitate when Joel called out to him, sounding concerned. 

A curtain of long dark hair fell across his features as he bowed his head, obscuring a sad smile, “It sounds like you both will have much to talk about. I’ll leave you to it.”

 

Several years after that night, Genji left the yakuza with a Blackwatch agent at his side, and Hanzo rose to power as the Shimada-gumi’s _oyabun_. His first act after his ascension had been to pardon his brother for his desertion, then systematically eliminate those who chose to undermine his command. Under his leadership, the family who adapted to the changes implemented in his reign were led towards the legitimacy their father had dreamed of. It had taken nearly a decade, but Hanzo was confident that their businesses were now more legal than not. A few of his men had even been granted permission to work with the local police, allowing the Shimada-gumi to curb the growth of rival clans while remaining in the good graces of law enforcement. 

Not everything needed to change, however. A good portion of their profits continued to go to hospitals and shelters, as they had during Sojiro’s reign, and yakuza could occasionally be seen volunteering at soup kitchens or aiding in housing efforts. The Shimada were a part of the community, as they had always been. It was simply that, like a tree with ailing branches, it had needed to be pruned and cared for, so that new, healthier growth could replace the rot. 

Through his efforts, Hanzo had created an empire that could last, though it was of little comfort when the mounds of paperwork on his desk seemed to only grow taller by the hour. Scowling, he slipped his arms between the stacks blocking his vision and pushed them apart to see a slightly younger man standing at the threshold of his office. He shifted awkwardly at Hanzo’s silence, one hand reaching up to clasp the back of his neck. “Hello, _anija_. It has been a while.” Still, Hanzo said nothing. There was too much he wanted to say, so little time to say it. “I am glad to see you are doing well.”

Awkwardness and uncertainty did not suit him. Domesticity, on the other hand, seemed to fit him like a custom-fitted sheath. Though his hairstyle resembled that which he had sported in his youth, he’d clearly allowed it to grow out, and his shirt and fashionably torn pants were of good quality, used without looking worn. Wherever he and McCree were living, they were obviously doing well for themselves. But... he had to know.

“Does he make you happy?”

His expression brightening with hope, Genji enthusiastically assured him, “I can think of none happier, Hanzo. Everyday, he makes me feel as though I am the luckiest man alive.” 

“Good,” Hanzo breathed out in a subtle sigh of relief. Afterwards, Genji seemed to settle, his posture relaxing as though he planned to remain, despite there being those in the clan who would yet kill him on sight. With that and one other threat in mind, Hanzo carefully shuttered his emotions behind a stoic front, making a big show of retrieving a paper from one of the stacks and pouring over it with a pen gripped tightly in his hand. “Now, get out of here.” He waved dismissively. “You never should have come.” 

Though his little brother attempted several times to coax him into conversation, Hanzo refused to be persuaded, even threatening to toss a stapler at his head when Genji foolishly rose his voice to a shout. Eventually, he relented, though he swore to return, and stormed out, slamming the door behind because his self-preservation had apparently chosen to go on an extended vacation. 

After waiting until he was certain that Genji was well and truly gone, Hanzo took the time to adjust his tie, then with his chin raised and his shoulders squared, turned to politely address the assassin standing in the now unobscured corner beside the door, “Thank you for your patience. I am ready now.”


End file.
